


to satisfy your appetite

by bmblb



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Choking, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, M/M, Season/Series 02, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:40:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28404894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bmblb/pseuds/bmblb
Summary: Will is standing in the frame. In his tight grip the perfect gleam of one of Hannibal’s freshly sharpened kitchen knives makes itself eagerly known. For just a moment, Hannibal imagines his own death; right here in his study, bleeding warm and sweetly red onto Will’s hands when he tucks the knife into his chest, slipping perfectly into his heart. Hannibal calls for the rate of said organ’s beating to remain steady as a hot rush of excitement threatens to pour through his veins. He pushes away from his desk and turns to face him.Will walks up to where Hannibal remains sitting but does not plunge the knife into him. Instead, he holds it out in front of himself, his grip now loose and easy. Hannibal takes it from him gingerly. He looks up into Will’s eyes, his own containing questions he doesn’t need to give voice to.Will says, “I want you to hurt me.”
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 51





	to satisfy your appetite

Hannibal rubs at the charcoal on the paper, smearing it slightly. It blends into Persephone’s sprawling dark curls, giving them a temporal appearance, as if at any moment she could be dragged into the belly of the Underworld to join her lover at their thrones.

He contemplates scenery as he wipes his smudged fingers on his handkerchief, already picturing nature being shorn into the perfect scene of black decay. As he tucks it back into his jacket pocket, folded perfectly once more, the door to his study opens.

Will is standing in the frame. In his tight grip the perfect gleam of one of Hannibal’s freshly sharpened kitchen knives makes itself eagerly known. For just a moment, Hannibal imagines his own death; right here in his study, bleeding warm and sweetly red onto Will’s hands when he tucks the knife into his chest, slipping perfectly into his heart. Hannibal calls for the rate of said organ’s beating to remain steady as a hot rush of excitement threatens to pour through his veins. He pushes away from his desk and turns to face him.

Will walks up to where Hannibal remains sitting but does not plunge the knife into him. Instead, he holds it out in front of himself, his grip now loose and easy. Hannibal takes it from him gingerly. He looks up into Will’s eyes, his own containing questions he doesn’t need to give voice to.

Will says, “I want you to hurt me.”

Hannibal can only blink in response for a few silent seconds. He feels several emotions at once, flitting through his skull—shock, confusion, glee, dread, desire. They knock around for a moment more before seeping into the grey matter of his brain. Hannibal tightens his hold on the knife.

“This is a very poor lure, Will. Your bait isn’t so coveted that I may ignore the hook.”

Will takes his phone out of his pocket. He unlocks it, showing a recording app readily pulled up on the screen. He presses the little red circle and says into the microphone, “This is Special Agent Will Graham of the FBI. Today is the twenty-sixth of October. I just asked Dr. Hannibal Lecter to injure me using a knife I retrieved from his kitchen. This is an entirely consensual exchange.” He sardonically waves his phone, eyebrows raised— _ anything else _ ?

Hannibal takes the device from Will and presses the button again to stop the recording. He says, “I fail to understand your motivation here.”

Will shrugs minutely. His collar is uneven from where he had been lying in the guest bedroom upstairs after dinner. Most nights nowadays, the two men stay up far too late for Will to be driving home, drinking and talking in the dining room or the living area that Hannibal usually uses to entertain guests until long past midnight. They’ve started coming back here every week after their sessions in Hannibal’s office. Hannibal knows that Will sometimes packs an overnight bag; one of his threadbare white sleepshirts had been left behind last week and is hanging freshly laundered in Hannibal’s guest bedroom closet.

“Do you need to understand? I’m asking nicely, and I know you want to.”

“You haven’t asked me,” Hannibal corrects.

Will’s jaw twitches but his head inclines in agreement. His voice changes to something demure and warm, an expert performance for an audience of one, as he asks, “Will you hurt me, Hannibal? I want it.”

Hannibal closes his eyes, lips stretching thin across his teeth. His heart betrays him in the end, after all, falling over itself in quick, thumping beats. He wants to remember this moment for the rest of his life. He barely manages an even tone as he says, “To what end, dear Will?”

“Does there have to be an end?” Will murmurs. “I’m sure you’ll know when it’s time to let up.”

Hannibal isn’t sure how true that is. His self control is usually immaculate, but Will seems entirely intent on changing that, consciously or not. He can’t imagine letting Will go after this. Nevertheless, he decides that talking circles has lost its allure. He stands and presses into the side of Will’s neck with the flat of the blade.

“You’re certain I won’t kill you despite your beliefs about my true nature,” Hannibal says. “Is that bravery or foolishness?”

Will doesn’t flinch at the cold metal, not even when Hannibal turns it to rest the sharp edge against Will’s pale skin. He sways closer, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m not playing hero, Hannibal. We’ve already established that.”

“Yes,” Hannibal agrees, and then he retracts the knife. “Go to my room. Strip the bed of all but the sheets and lie down.”

This makes Will hesitate, but only for a second. He glances up at Hannibal’s face then turns and leaves the study, climbing the stairs at a slightly quickened pace. Hannibal looks back down at his drawing where it lays abandoned. Persephone stares back at him in wide-eyed innocence, pomegranate seeds in her palm, and Hannibal thinks for a moment that it’s an act, that she knows exactly what she’s doing by planting the seeds of death in her belly. He wonders if Will knows as well.

He goes to the kitchen to wash his hands in the sink and then retrieves a small medical bag from his supply closet. After turning out all of the lights except for the island overheads in his kitchen, he takes to slowly climbing the steps, as if moving too quickly would disturb this fantastical scene and send it scattering like wisps of smoke.

When Hannibal opens the door, he finds the sight of Will to be more perfect than imagined. Will lies on the white sheets (fortuitous that the black ones are in the wash, Hannibal thinks, so that the evidence of what they are about to do cannot be ignored), one arm over his abdomen and the other at his side. One of his knees is bent, raising his leg and planting an arched foot on the bed. He’s taken the liberty of removing his shirt, which lies draped over the end of the mattress.

Hannibal’s thoughts immediately go to sculptures of old, how fitting the sight of Will in this moment would be cast in marble for eternity and on display in great museums for passerby to observe with reverence. His pondering is dashed by the thought that no labor of cut stone, Greek or Roman or anything else, would be as moving as what is in front of him right now. Nothing has ever gripped so tightly at Hannibal’s core as this has.

He approaches him with silent steps, setting the medical bag on his bedside table and opening it to reveal its contents. “You will have to be more specific in your choice of injury, Will,” he says low and teeming with cautious delight. “This is as much for you as it is me. Where would you like to start?”

Will rolls his eyes without malice and reaches up and tugs at Hannibal’s jacket. He takes the hint and removes it, setting it carefully atop Will’s shirt. Will sits up, then, and begins unbuttoning Hannibal’s waistcoat. Once the article has joined the other removed clothing, Will begins the process of taking out Hannibal’s cufflinks and folding his shirtsleeves up to the elbow. Afterwards, he loosens his clutched grip around the cufflinks, looking down at where they glint silver in the streams of moonlight from the window, and says, “You should cut me open.”

Hannibal takes the cufflinks from him and puts them in a dish on his bedside table. “Are you wanting it to scar?”

“Yes. Not where people could see.”

“Just for you to know about, then,” Hannibal says thoughtfully.

“And you.” Will lies back onto the sheet. His gaze has traveled to the ceiling, away from Hannibal and the bag on the table. “As much for you as it is me,” he echoes.

Hannibal nods even though Will is no longer looking at him. “Then we act in shared interest.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a few alcohol wipes. He’s still holding the kitchen knife in his other hand and sterilizes it first.

“I think over the oblique muscles,” he muses, setting aside the used wipes and plucking out a few more to clean Will’s skin. He touches the chosen area lightly, fingers grazing over the lower right of Will’s abdomen, near his hip. After Will nods, acquiescing, Hannibal sterilizes the area with one of the wipes. Will tenses slightly at the chilled feeling but relaxes before it can be construed as hesitation.

“Normally, I would suggest a scalpel in order to achieve a more precise cut. Would you rather me use that?” Will shakes his head, just as Hannibal anticipated, which is just as well. Hannibal cannot recall if he keeps a scalpel in this bag, and he doesn't want to leave Will.

“Very well,” Hannibal says. “You must lie still, then, to avoid an accident. This knife will be far harder to keep steady under a twitching subject.”

The cut is deep enough to ensure an aftermath of undeniable evidence, but shallow enough that Hannibal does not fear any internal damage. Pearls of blood bead up in a line before running to stain Hannibal’s free hand where it rests splayed under the area of incision. He is blown over with relief that he had been mindful enough to forego gloves; the thin layer of latex would have unforgivably stifled the tantalizing heat as it went in slick rivulets down his fingers and palm.

Halfway through the intended incision, Will speaks. “Sometimes,” he starts, voice unsteady as the pain sharpens, “I dream about you sticking your hands in me and twisting everything up.” Will catches his eye then. Hannibal pauses, stilling the knife, unable to look away from his unreadable expression. “Or pulling things out to hold them where I can see. Your arms are wet and red to the elbow after and it never washes off.”

“Do these dreams frighten you?”

“No,” Will says. He holds Hannibal’s gaze for a moment more before looking away again, prompting Hannibal to continue.

Hannibal is sure to keep his movements certain as he finishes the cut despite the lurching heat in his gut. His thoughts feel like a static recording, replaying Will’s words over and over with an accompaniment of fizzing eagerness. Relinquishing Will’s flesh from the blade, Hannibal doesn’t reach up and dig it into Will’s chest to cut a Y-incision, revealing all his coveted proof of life for his own possessive and desperate pleasure, but it’s a close thing.

Will’s face is taut in a grimace and his fists are clenched, but he says nothing. Hannibal cannot resist dragging his fingers through the blood as it glides into the shallow of Will’s navel, revealed by loose-fitting, low cut jeans (Hannibal imagines they must’ve fit him before the hospital; Will has lost too much weight since his admittance, much to his chagrin). Will’s body tenses even more before he forces it to relax, eyelids fluttering to rest half mast. Hannibal sets the knife aside and runs his clean hand through his curls in approval. He brings his other hand to his own lips, dragging the bloodied fingers over them to taste before moving to grab the washcloth in his bag.

Hannibal lets the welling blood overflow the concave of Will’s skin and slide down his waist onto the sheets before he moves to clean and stitch the area closed. His body barely twitches under each suture. Hannibal’s eyes flit restlessly between the cut and Will’s face. In that moment, he wishes he could see both clearly at once, at all times.

“Is this what you wanted?” Hannibal asks.

He’s surprised when his own words come out in no more than a quiet murmur. Will takes a moment to compose himself before reaching down to graze his fingers over the wet stain in the sheets, eyes opening fully to take in the sight of Hannibal leaning over him. He knows what he must look like—his hair has fallen over his forehead from keeping his head bent to work and the constriction around his eyes signals that his pupils are dilated. The track of his gaze has yet to settle as he commits the sight of Will to memory.

Will reaches to grasp his forearm, face relaxed even more than it was earlier this evening after being plied with drink after drink—an unsubtle attempt on Hannibal’s part to keep the man talking hours past an acceptable time for departure. “Not yet,” Will says. “I want you to choke me.”

Hannibal’s breath catches even despite his best effort. “That will leave bruises,” he says. “Harder to hide.”

“I’m on leave,” Will replies, tone decidedly sardonic. “The flu. Not even Jack is willing to cause an encephalitis flare up by forcing me to show up to crime scenes sick and feverish.”

Hannibal pauses. “You aren’t ill,” he says unnecessarily. He would’ve smelled it on him if he is. Will shrugs, mouth sharpening into a wry grin, and he realizes: “You’ve planned all of this out.”

“Thoroughly,” Will concedes. “No excuses.”

Hannibal reaches his bloodied hand, still mostly wet, to Will’s neck. “You will tell me when to stop.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” Will says.

With a too sharp exhale, Hannibal tightens his grip until he’s squeezing, constricting Will’s throat until he can’t get a breath in. For a moment, Will lays still, forcibly relaxed. It doesn’t take long for his body to wrench control from him, though, acting on total instinct when he tries and fails to fill his lungs. His mouth opens soundlessly, eyes wide, and he maintains Hannibal’s gaze even as his hands grip at the sheet and yanks until it nearly tears.

Hannibal is well aware how long it takes on average for a man to go unconscious from strangling. He gives Will a couple seconds more on account of his preparation. When Will’s arms and legs slow their ceaseless and desperate movements, his vision surely spotting before the eclipse of unconsciousness, Hannibal forces himself to relent.

Will drags in a heavy breath that throws him into a coughing fit. He reaches up to hold his throat as his gasps become more controlled, eyes squeezed shut. When Hannibal looks down, he realizes that the stitches have already torn. He presses down on Will’s shoulder to still his twitching movements and watches him flinch at the touch.

He lets Will calm down until he’s aware enough to feel the pain at his abdomen and the hot surge of blood from the reopened wound. He runs his clean hand through Will’s hair again, fingers pulling the curls slightly until Will only moves to pant and tremble finely. His neck is already bruising purple in the shape of Hannibal’s fingers.

Hannibal gets to work replacing the stitches as the red spot on the sheet begins to spread in an arc at Will’s side. When Hannibal begins to suture the wound closed after removing the torn ones, Will lets out a stiff, broken off cry before he can help it—the sound of it leaves Hannibal burning, his tongue pressed hard against the back of his clenched teeth. Looking up, he sees Will shake his head quickly and motion for him to continue.

Once the wound is closed, Hannibal starts to pull away with finality, putting his supplies away and moving to close his medical bag. Before he can even pull the zipper Will grabs his arm again with surprising force. His voice slightly frantic, he says, “Wait. Hit me.”

This time, Hannibal doesn’t protest or hesitate, doesn’t question his limitations. He moves in one swift motion to pin Will’s thighs down with his calf, presses back down on Will’s shoulder, and slaps him across the face, hard. Will’s head wrenches to the side and he groans immediately, eyes wide in shock.

Hannibal doesn’t move away, too fascinated with Will’s reaction. He turns his head back to face Hannibal again and touches his surely stinging cheek, but his sharpened eyes have turned warm, his face slack, mouth slightly open. They stare at each other for several quiet moments as if to take everything in. Hannibal knows his expression is an amalgamation of intense observation, dark excitement, and unbridled satisfaction, just as he knows that Will’s own mirrors it exactly.

Hannibal cannot bury the impulse to touch fast enough when a bruise quickly begins to bloom over Will’s cheekbone. The mottled coloring is blisteringly hot when his fingertips graze it. Will’s eyes remain fixed on his face even when Hannibal zeroes in on the impact-warmed skin, palm smoothing flat across his cheek. His fingers reach out to grip at Hannibal’s slacks where his leg keeps him pinned.

“You could kill me,” he says.

“Yes,” Hannibal agrees, breathless, and Will’s face twists with a sudden feral grin as his hand shoots up to grab him by the neck and pull him into a searing kiss. Hannibal stiffens before his mind catches up and he can relax into it, letting Will pull him flush against him, the force he was using to hold him down slackening in surprise. It dissolves into an eager rush of tongues and teeth and Hannibal barely manages to move away from Will’s stitched wound by raising up onto one elbow by his head.

Will is quick to yank Hannibal’s hips back down with a fierce jolt that grinds them against each other; he moans into Hannibal’s open mouth before kissing him again and Hannibal is suddenly overcome with the urge to hurt him once more. His free hand darts into Will’s hair and pulls with unforgiving force. Will releases him with a desperate gasp.

The sight gives Hannibal back some sense of control. His teeth snap at Will’s bottom lip and he raises his head away from him. Will’s eyes are glazed and dark with lust. It makes Hannibal think of martyrs and stained glass.

He reaches down to still Will’s seeking hips. “I’m not replacing your stitches again.”

“I don’t care,” Will mutters, head tilting back up to graze Hannibal’s lips with his own, barely catching in a kiss. The thought of letting Will bleed all over him is sorely tempting, but Hannibal is unwilling to let the wound become infected after so much effort to keep it sterilized. He tugs at Will’s hair again in reproach and lifts off of him.

Will groans at Hannibal’s shifting weight and his head falls back against the pillow. “Help me up then,” he grumbles.

Hannibal pulls him into a sitting position against the headboard. He reaches into his medical bag, pulls out an assortment of pain medication, then holds them out to Will.

After dry swallowing the pills, he stares hard at Hannibal, gaze so intense that he feels it even as he turns to close the bag and clean up. “You aren’t one to deny yourself what you want, doctor,” says Will.

“You planned for me to hurt you. Did you plan that as well?”

“No, but I understood it was a possible outcome of my plans.” He touches at the finger-shaped bruises painting his neck. “I wasn’t opposed.”

Hannibal aligns his fingers with the bruises on the other side, thrumming with contentedness at the undeniable claim he has left. Hannibal only says, “You are the one factor of my life I cannot predict.”

“You think I’ll regret it.”

Hannibal glances down at his exposed forearms, each marked with matching scars. He wonders if Will rolled up his sleeves to protect his clothing or just so that he could see his own claim on Hannibal’s life. Considering the blood seeping into the knees of his slacks, he’s inclined to believe the latter. “Is that such an irrational theory?”

“No,” Will concedes, “but I won’t.”

Hannibal isn’t comforted, but even when Will’s motivations are opaque to him he’s incapable of resisting such a gift in the moment of receiving it. He leans in and presses his lips to Will’s forehead, damp with perspiration after the influx of adrenaline. “I wonder, then—are you as exquisite in your ecstasy as you are in your agony?”

“Only one way to find out.” Despite himself, Will yawns, the strong medication already taking effect. His eyes flutter closed and his face relaxes entirely as the thorns of pain are chased away, leaving him soft and tired.

“I can take you to the guest bedroom,” Hannibal murmurs, face tilted towards Will’s ear. “Let you rest.”

Will tenses slightly. “You can. Or I can stay in here.”

“I believe this mattress might be a lost cause for the night,” Hannibal says, without an ounce of regret. He feels a twinge of mourning only at the idea of cleaning away the bright red stain. “Perhaps we should both take up in the guest bedroom.”

Will only hums. Hannibal brushes his curls behind his ear before getting a clean, damp washcloth from the bathroom. After having sufficiently cleaned them both of blood, Hannibal gathers the dozing Will in his arms and lifts. To his surprise and great pleasure, Will only grumbles for a second before wrapping his arms around Hannibal’s neck and allowing himself to be carried to the guest room. He sets Will gently down into a sitting position on the bed. “Take off your trousers,” he tells him. “I’ll only be a moment.”

Hannibal goes back to his room and removes the sheet first. He presses his nose and mouth into the bloodstain that mars it, inhaling the sharp iron scent with barely contained hunger. He resolves to keep it as is—it brings him immense satisfaction knowing he has evidence to maintain the memory of tonight after it has long passed.

He goes through his night routine as quickly as possible, brushing teeth and changing into pajamas before putting his medical bag back in the closet downstairs and turning off the kitchen light. Once he’s returned to Will, the man is lying under the blankets, dozing peacefully. When Hannibal turns the lights off and slips into the bed beside him Will wakes up enough to turn to him and throw an arm over his chest.

Voice thick with exhaustion, he says, “I wonder how different things would’ve been if we’d done this from the start.”

Hannibal takes a moment to imagine it, an altogether different path for them; one where he doesn’t feed into Will’s illness, where they live and work as one. Where he never tricks Will into a life haunted by a fabricated act of filicide. If he confessed to Will under the hope that love would foster acceptance, maybe even appreciation, could things have gone an entirely different way? He cannot help but ask: “With how you feel about me now, do you truly think that would have been sustainable?”

Will shrugs minutely. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He sighs. “I guess it doesn’t matter much now.”

“No,” Hannibal agrees. No matter Will’s game (and he knows with almost perfect certainty there is one—even this could just be another piece in play to support Will’s unpredictable strategy), he can only want to live in the present. He ignores the well of theoreticals that awaits his tripping in for an endless fall and lets Will press his nose and mouth to Hannibal’s shoulder, breathing evening out with the approach of sleep. “Sleep well, dear Will,” he mutters, brushing his lips across his cheek and listening to him sigh into slumber.

He lays there for a long while without sleeping, watching Will’s eyes flit about under closed lids with unknowable dreams.


End file.
